


Beyond the strife of fleets heroic

by sagiow



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Advice, Civil War, Conversations, Dialogue Heavy, F/M, Friendship, Self-Doubt, late Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-09 21:55:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17413445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow
Summary: What do you do, when everything you have always believed may not be true, nor even right?





	Beyond the strife of fleets heroic

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [yet apt the verse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16559687) by [tortoiseshells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortoiseshells/pseuds/tortoiseshells). 



  « Doctor Foster? A word, if I may? »

Jedidiah Foster looked up from his desk: he had been writing for what felt like hours, pen nib scratching steadily as he filled reports and signed forms, eyes straining in the dimming sunlight of the late afternoon, his barely touched tea long grown cold, and so he gladly welcomed the intrusion.

“For you, my dear Peaseblossom, always, and especially when there is such wretched paperwork to attend. How may I be of assistance?”

By now, she had learned to gauge his mood by the nickname he chose to bestow upon her. “Peaseblossom” was for the good days, those where his eyes shone and he appeared younger than his years, most often from a surgery performed successfully with innovative methods, or from simply having drawn a smile from Mary Phinney. “Hoopskirt Assassin” was for days where the dreary work and constant clashes with Dr. Hale brought out the caustic side of his humor. “Miss Green” was for most days, and the dire circumstances they faced: patient needs were high, chloroform and other resources were low, and humor all but extinguished. “Young lady” was for the very worse, those days of losses that should have been prevented, of battles that never seemed to end - both at the front and in the hospital - that left him fidgety and weary, eager for an escape, and the words were typically barked in reproach for a minor fault that he would have shrugged off any other day.

So Peaseblossom it was today, and that was encouraging. She had hoped it might be so, from the lively conversation of the night before, the cozy evening spent with tea, cigar and pleasant company without a medical emergency or undesired intruder to disturb them, and was glad his good humor had not dissipated since.

Thus emboldened, she entered the room, closed the door and took the chair opposite him.

“Oh, a private entretien?” he asked, leaning forward eagerly over the desk. "Whom are we gossiping about?”

“No one,” she scoffed, then reconsidered. “Or rather, me.”

“Hmmmm… irregular, but intriguing. Go on.”

She took a moment to order her thoughts, wondering which best way to broach the delicate subject, and finding none. She settled instead for the familiar beats of polite conversation.

“Dr. Foster, you come from Maryland, don’t you?" she asked, her forced bright tone unconvincing to her ears. "From an old, slave-holding family?”

He frowned. “Yes, my family has owned Foster Plantation for four generations. And dozens of slaves along the years to work it. Not a particular proud point, as far as I’m concerned, but one rather necessary in our Southern ways.”

“Speaking of which,” she pursued, “why did you find yourself employed by the Union army? Why not be a surgeon with the Confederates, if that is where your family loyalties lie?”

The frown deepened. “My loyalties lie with my _patients_ , be they from the Union or Confederacy. I only care of their welfare and relative comfort, which is not something that can be said for all doctors on staff here. I believe you know this quite well, and I fail to see how it pertains to yourself, Miss Green.”

At the increased crossness of his tone, Emma slumped somewhat in her seat, biting the inside of her cheek. Noticing her distress, he softened his approach. “Please, just speak plainly. If I can help, I will. What is troubling you?”

She raised her eyes to meet his, and could not find an ounce of judgement in them, only inquisitive kindness. She took a deep breath.

“Doctor,” she finally spoke slowly, almost wincing with every word. “What do you do, when everything you have always believed may not be true, nor even right?”

“Phew….” Jed exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “Quite the rhetorical topic, and I am but a simple man of science. Wouldn’t questions of morality better be addressed to, say… Chaplain Hopkins?”

“I do not want to ask _him_ ,” she muttered, remembering Henry’s fury at Tom’s death, his gentle touch at her father’s imprisonment, his so uncharacteristic demeanor the night before, in turns gallant, playful and self-dismissive, as he escorted her home, skipping across the flooded streets. Their joined hands, their final almost embrace, cut short by the rain. Her own almost admission, cut short by Belinda’s timely interruption. All conflicting situations, confusing feelings she did not wish to revisit right now.

Foster caught her embarrassment, and managed to keep his grin hidden. “No, I suppose you do not,” he agreed as seriously as he could, making an enthusiastic mental note of seeking out Mary Phinney as soon as the chance presented itself to share this new development. “Besides, what answer would a kindly Yankee preacher have that you haven’t already thought of yourself? Prayer? More prayer? Ha, great deal of good, that does. No, it is Judas’ opinion you seek. The other Southern traitor in your colorful entourage.”

“I’m no traitor!” she gasped. “I haven’t done anything to betray the Cause!”

“Maybe not yet, but to doubt is the very first step. No army wants its soldiers doubting the orders they are given. Anything short of blind obedience is mutiny. Outright rebellion.”

Her brow furrowed at this, the implications dawning on her bitterly. “What made _you_ doubt, then?”

He shrugged. “I have always believed in the strength of the Union, of its greater possibility for progress and innovation. I’ve seen the formidable strides made forward in Europe with industrialization, modern medicine and improved hygiene. There is no such thing in the South. The Confederates would have slaves planting tobacco and cotton while they reaped the profits and lazily sipped on mint juleps until the end of days.”

“So your reasons are… purely economic?” she wondered.

“Economic, intellectual, political; humanist, even, in a way. One side fights to keep living in its past of privilege for a lucky few, and the other to ensure a brighter future for most through progress and prosperity. My choice was easy to make.”

“Even if it meant crossing your family?”

At this, Jed sighed, the memory of his last family reunion and the morphine-induced torture that followed it still cruelly felt. “Children rarely follow the course desired by their parents. You would not be the first, nor the last, pariah out of the South. It may prove quite difficult, as doing what is right typically is, but you may very well find yourself a new family along the way; one that will welcome you with all your rebellious ideas, and not despite them.”

To rebel against the Rebels. The irony of it was frightening, but perhaps not as much as it might have been a few months past. She thought of her parents, so steadfast in their desire to protect her innocence. Of her siblings, doing their best to support the Confederacy despite their limitations. Of Frank, of his alterego and undercover work, undertaking some secret mission right across the street from Mansion House. She thought of them, and could not face walking away from them, despite her growing doubts as to the righteousness of their Cause.  “I have not reached that point yet.”

“Maybe not, but -and I’m sure I speak for many others here-, please know that my door will still be wide open if ever you do.”

There was no mischief in his voice then, only friendly concern. She did not know what to respond to such an unexpectedly sympathetic overture, and all she could muster were mumbled gratitudes.

“Do not make too much of it,” he dismissed it. “After all, it would be foolish of us to turn you away now that you’re finally becoming an adequate nurse. And you challenge Nurse Phinney to keep a fairer disposition towards all our patients, which is how I prefer our Head Nurse.”

 _I could think of a few other dispositions you’d prefer her in,_ Emma thought wryly, but held her tongue and only smiled instead. She stood and smoothed her skirts. “Thank you again for your time and counsel, Dr. Foster. You've given me much to think about. I shall let you get back to your work.”

He rolled his eyes dramatically at the pile of forms before him. “I’d much rather you didn’t, but the men need your entertaining conversation more than I do.”

“I’m sure Nurse Hastings will be by shortly with a long list of recriminations,” she quipped slyly.

He groaned at this. “Then do be sure to call for my most urgent, non-negotiable help within a minute of her entry. God, that woman can be worse than paperwork.”

Her smiled widened, and she nodded. “Of course, Doctor. Anything for my Southern brethren.”

**Author's Note:**

> Another little thing I wrote mostly on vacation back in November, before end-of-year craziness, more festive pieces and MomBreak prompts commandeered my attention and prevented me from finishing it. 
> 
> I can’t remember in which story it was, but in the comments, we had been wondering why there was so little shared screen time between Jed & Emma on the show, considering their similar backgrounds and struggles, so here’s one crack at it. 
> 
> Takes place after “More ponderous than nimble”, which takes place after tortoiseshells’ “yet apt the verse”, so End of Season 1 timeline. Peaseblossom is from middlemarch's contributions to the Mercy Street Players collection. All titles still from Melville's "A Utilitarian View of the Monitors Fight" (and we're seriously starting to run that poem's quotable lines dry).


End file.
